A Symphony of Vibrating Strings
by SapphireSecret
Summary: "...Thus, when I awoke outside on a warm, muggy day, blades of grass pricking my cheek, with no memory at all of how I could have gotten there, I calmly sat up and observed my surroundings." Semi-self insert garbage. An attempt at realism, I guess? Disclaimer for the whole story: I own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

I had always been a practical girl.

While others would panic, my emotions would shut down until I could sort through them at a more convenient time. Act first, process later. Repression at its finest. Thus, when I awoke outside on a warm, muggy day, blades of grass pricking my cheek, with _no memory at all_ of how I could have gotten there, I calmly sat up and observed my surroundings.

A _wall_ of bark drew my attention. My wide eyes followed the tree up—

—and up—

—and _up._

My mouth dropped open as I craned by head back. "Oh...shit," I said softly.

Several yards before me loomed a monolith of nature. A trunk big enough to fit a _house_ in. The bark-sheathed tower rose hundreds of feet, straight and unblemished, until impossibly thick branches bristled out horizontally, criss-crossing like highways with limbs from other behemoth-trees. Blue sky peeked like far-off rivers between leafy boughs. Sunshine cast the canopy on-high into a cheerful lime.

 _This isn't Michigan,_ I realized in the same way one realized their home had burned down while they were out: shocked, numb despair. _How am I not in Michigan?_

Terror curled around my heart.

Bracing my hands on my knees, I drew my feet under myself and stood. I felt shaky, but only from emotion. I traced my fingertips over my pale forearms. No track-marks or pinpricks. If I'd been kidnapped, drugs didn't seem very likely. I wasn't even hungry. Pulling out the collar of my T-shirt, I looked down, and then shifted my hips, feeling for anything off.

Nothing. No mysterious bruises or aches or...anything at all. My throat was a little scratchy, and I had a slight headache, but that had been going on for a week. Everyone on campus had it.

 _I think...I fell asleep at my desk...?_

Yes. That was the last thing I remembered. I had returned home for the weekend, and worked into the early morning on the line art for a painting. The assignment was "nature," specifically flora and landscapes, _not_ fauna. Not my expertise. My fore- and middle-ground consisted mostly of flowers; I tried to insinuate human shapes in how they were arranged. A little experiment in subliminal messaging.

"This is just so bizarre..." I whispered, hesitant to breach the silence. Confusion clouded my mind.

I blinked in realization.

Unnatural, ominous silence pressed like hands over my ears. Where were the insects, the woodland animals? Not even the plants rustled. Gargantuan trees blocked the wind.

I hugged myself despite the summer heat. (How was it so warm in a forest? How high must the temperature be _outside_ of this place?) I wondered, briefly, if I was dreaming. Impossible—there were too many sensory details that dreams skipped. _Could the silence be caused by predators...?_ Stumbling in an awkward circle, I examined the forest for, _I don't know_ , perfectly-preserved mountain lion tracks, or the gouges of bear-claws on bark...

A shiver crept up my spine. Goosebumps rose on my arms.

In the center of the small clearing—really just the normal space between these larger-than-life trees—a dark patch of dead, withered grass marred the Earth, perfectly in the shape of a fallen woman.

 _Like a chalk-outline of a body, but made with death._

The grass bowed flat all around the scorched outline, as if blown by fierce winds from that single point. The detritus of a forest, leaves and sticks and things, were nowhere to be seen. The air smelled strongly of soil, likely due to the bald patches revealed whenever... _this_ happened.

"If this is a prank," I said, my voice weak, not truly trying to puncture the unfathomable silence, "then I am _so_ taking legal action."

The void swallowed my words.

Old tales of people being spirited away filled my head. My breath came fast. I didn't believe in ghosts or magic or anything else of the occult, but I _did_ believe in angels and demons. If someone pulled out a Ouija board, _nope,_ I was going home.

My heart raced. Terror quivered in my stomach. I whipped my head around, searching for any sign of civilization, _anything._ A sudden, powerful itch possessed my muscles.

I needed to go.

My legs propelled me from the clearing.

* * *

—

* * *

Common sense screeched its nails down a proverbial chalkboard.

 _Dammit. I can't do this._ Grinding my teeth, I stumbled to a halt. Fear and dread shivered over my skin. It had felt so _good_ to run. But I had to think. Darting off aimlessly could get me killed.

 _Where's your cool, Amy?_

Sweat beaded my upper lip. I stomped back to the clearing, trying to galvanize myself with anger. As I drew closer, I edged toward a tree warily, as if it could offer me protection.

The flattened grass. Oppressive, gaping silence. The heavy, humid air, untouched by life's breeze. Shafts of sunlight lanced down into my clearing, illuminating pearlescent curls of mist.

The blackened outline of my body.

I trembled despite the heat of day. My skin crawled as if something evil hovered in the clearing. I knew it was all in my head. (I hoped it was all in my head.)

Deep breath _in..._ and out.

Think.

 _How do I survive in the wild?_

When I was little, Mom had told me to stay put if I got lost—that way people could find me.

Definitely not. I needed to find a water source. Without food I could maybe last a week. Without water I had two days, if I remembered correctly. Civilization clustered around rivers and such. _And...I think I need to go downhill...? Water flows down, and it's easier on the body._

I looked around, hoping to see an obvious decline in the land.

Trees. Trees everywhere, like the walls of a maze. It would be impossible to go in a straight line. Navigating by the stars was also out, and I even remembered enough from my old Earth-Space class to do so. The ground rose and fell sharply between the towers of bark. _Because of the roots...? Or is it naturally craggy?_

 _Difficult terrain,_ whispered the D&D corner of my brain. _Move at half-speed._

Perhaps I was at the foot of a mountain. Not that I knew anything about geography; I always took the history classes instead.

A whine caught in my throat. _A mountain. Oh, God._ I looked to the sky, or what little I could see of it. If there was ever a time for prayer... _Where am I? Please keep me safe. Oh, God._

Now I was just panicking. Stupid girl.

Okay. Water. Downhill. Everywhere seemed about even, so I'd just have to keep an eye out for streams or something. Moving generally in one direction would be good. Going in circles would suck. _If only I had a compass._

 _Isn't moss supposed to grow on the North side of trees...?_

After backing away from the edge of the barren clearing—I didn't want to turn my back on it—I examined the underbrush around me, which grew abundantly. Bushes displayed colorful dots of berries and flowers. Tiny white mushrooms peppered walls of bark like shelves, and parasitic-looking vines climbed the trunks. Damp, dead leaves carpeted the forest—less than I might have expected. (It would be _awesome_ if this was an arboretum or something. Maybe I could find a caretaker.) Small trees reached for the sun, struggling to live. Vines wreathed the ground.

I recognized none of them. I didn't even see poison ivy.

There was also no moss. Bummer. I wiped my hands down my face in frustration, then cast a paranoid glance toward the clearing. Nothing had changed, although I had half-expected it.

An idea occurred to me. My expression brightened.

 _I might not be able to stay here..._ I emptied my pockets, examining what I had to work with. _But Mom had a good point. I should leave a marker of some sort so they'll know I was here._ "They" being my imaginary search party.

I thought of the viscerally disturbing black mark, just out of sight. _That doesn't count—it's a freaky piece of voodoo or something which could be utterly unrelated to me, to an outside perspective._

The pocketknife Daddy gave me for Christmas—invaluable, if I could muster enough ingenuity. A spare container of pencil lead, the size of my pinky. Driver's licence, student ID, and debit card. Gas station receipt. Three quarters, a dime, and half a dozen pennies. Raspberry chapstick. A spare hairband.

No phone, obviously. _That_ was charging in my bedroom. Like a useless thing.

A swell of bitterness washed over me. "Probably wouldn't have service anyway," I said, trying to make myself feel better. It didn't work.

On TV, a marker left by a kidnapped person would be a strip from their brightly-colored clothing, usually tied around a low tree-branch. My printed T-shirt was grey, my jeans dark blue. Nothing that would stand out.

 _Something reflective—?_

 _My jewelry..._ I touched the gold, heart-shaped stud in my ear. My heart clenched at the thought of abandoning one of them. These, too, were a gift from Daddy. I also had a ring from my sister. Tiny black diamonds glittered from my finger. Who knew when I would even see them again...?

A chill passed through my heart. _I'll just have to use something else. Besides, they're so small. The returns don't equal the cost.  
_

Struck by inspiration, I held the crumpled gas station receipt aloft. Stark white, waxy paper. It had gone through the wash once, rendering it unreadable. It would do just fine. I could use the hairband to tie it in place. It even had some hairs tangled on it, which could be used for a DNA test.

And if I used paper...

Feeling around my ponytail, I drew my mechanical pencil from my hair. In clear, blocky lettering, I wrote:

My name is Amy Patricia Wilson.  
I am lost. I don't know where I am or how I got here. Please help!  
This is my address:  
1173 Maple Avn.  
Elmerton, Michigan  
48001  
United States of America

It read like a dog's collar, and I'd poked the lead through the receipt in a couple of places, but...whatever. Better than nothing. I had considered writing a description of myself—age and coloring and whatnot—but I had my driver's licence and student ID for verifying my identity, should I be found.

Entering the clearing for the last time, I looked for a suitable place to plant my marker. The black outline loomed in the loud silence; I never looked directly at it.

My searching eyes landed upon one of those vines clinging to a tree. A splash of artificial white would stand out against the brown.

I squeezed the hairband between the coarse vine and bark, then paused. _If this is to help someone find me—what if I_ was _kidnapped? What if I'm found by the wrong people?_ Huffing angrily, I secured the waxy scrap of paper to the vine. _Then I'm screwed anyway. May as well grasp at straws._

 _However...if I'm leaving a note, why not leave something less likely to be ruined by nature?_

I wrapped my ponytail into a bun atop my head and stabbed the pencil through it, securing it in place. It was too hot and humid to bother with my heavy blanket of hair on my neck. Then I flipped open my pocket knife—already useful. Although this would be hell on the blade.

Planting a hand on the massive trunk, I leaned in for leverage and carved a wobbling arrow below the marker. I used the shorter of the two knives, hoping to keep the longer one keen. The bark scraped my knuckles multiple times. Perhaps there was a better way than clutching it in my fist and dragging the blade over the tree like a caveman, but if there was, I didn't know of it.

Stepping back once more, I examined my handiwork.

"It'll do."

I squared my shoulders. Fear burned a hole in my heart, but nevertheless I marched in the direction I had carved the arrow.

 _Water. Downhill. Don't go in circles._

* * *

 **End chapter one.**

You have no idea how hard I resisted making a "I'm not in Kansas anymore" joke.

Don't worry...ninja will come in soon.

I call this semi-self insert garbage because Amy isn't me, not at all, but she's _based_ off of me, so... Also, that address isn't real. I made it up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two:**

* * *

 _In retrospect,_ I thought as I stabbed another tree, _this is gonna take freakin' forever if I leave marks everywhere I go._ I scraped my knuckles on the bark, tearing open scarcely-congealed scabs.

"Dammit." I shook my hand, as if that would alleviate the sharp stinging.

Instinct told me to suck on it, but that would invite infection. Allowing the injury to bleed itself out would cleanse it of contaminants, hopefully. Then I would apply chapstick. The oily layer would protect the open injury from outside germs—also hopefully—as well as keep it from drying out, which supposedly promoted healing.

Planning kept me calm.

Moisture weighed in the air. My lungs ached for a cool, unladened breath. Sweat made my skin itch. I kept slapping myself or looking down, expecting a mosquito, but finding nothing. (I didn't believe for a second that this was some magical land without mosquitos. I just wasn't _seeing them._ Hence the paranoia.)

Birds trilled and chirruped overhead. Indigenous insects emitted strange clicks and reverberating, nasally whines. Plants rustled and twigs snapped quietly. I couldn't help but jump and cast paranoid glances, although the largest creature I had seen was a squirrel, reassuring in its familiarity. And, with prey nosing about, there likely wouldn't be predators.

 _This place is gorgeous. I could spend years, and never quite capture everything on canvas._

Despite the circumstances, awe kindled under my heart as I trekked the uneven ground, feeling active and wonderfully alive. Had survival not been a pressing concern, I would have loved the impromptu hike—even with the humidity. Veils of mist granted the extraordinary forest a mythical, fairy-tale-esque aura. Thin shafts of sunlight broke from the canopy of leaves, peircing the mist and illuminating the wafting water particles. Miniscule white bugs flluttered inside the golden light.

I had no doubt: something had been very _wrong_ with that dead-silent clearing.

With a look up at the distant treetops, sunlight glittering between the leaves, I thought fervently: _Thank God I didn't take my sneakers off_.

Or worn heels. I would've been doomed.

I periodically carded my fingers over my scalp, wary of tics—a product of living at the edge of town with a forest out back. Occasionally, a bug would _bzzz_ too close, making a whine climb up my throat. The sound scuttled under my skin, made my heart race. I pressed trembling hands over my ears, continuing to march through the forest.

One of my quirks: I was terrified of insects crawling into my ears. _That_ cute little phobia manifested whenever something buzzed in my general direction. Beneath the unreasonable panic hammering throughout my body like a peasant shrieking about witches, I found myself very annoyed. _Stupid operative conditioning._

Suppressing a cough, I cautiously uncovered my ears.

No buzzing. Nothing to panic over.

 _Not that there was anything to panic over to begin with_ _—besides waking up in Narnia._ I snorted, which aggravated my sore throat. "I could really use a Mr. Tumnus right about now."

* * *

 _—_

* * *

As I navigated the labyrinth of trees, tidbits of information returned to me.

Standing water wasn't safe to drink. Talking or singing kept predators away, or at least bears—I hadn't found the courage to put _that_ into practice. Animal trails lead to flowing water.

" _Or_ they'll lead in circles," I muttered. _And that's assuming I can even follow an animal trail._

A flare of anger made me stomp my foot. I trembled with it, teeth and fists clenched tight, my face a thundercloud. The youth group had hosted wilderness getaways— _for the boys._ I totally would have gone roughing it if I'd been allowed to, and now I didn't know how to survive.

 _Assholes. Pig-headed misogynists. Short-sighted and exclusionary, thinking they're so much tougher 'cause they're_ bigger _._ _Smug, condescending troglodites._

"Girls get lost in the wilderness too, you chauvinists," I hissed, unwilling to shriek at the sky.

(Of course, the youth group would never allow co-ed camping, and the female leaders never even seemed to consider wilderness survival getaways as an option, but my fury _knew no understanding!)_

* * *

—

* * *

The angle of sunlight changed slightly. It spilled straight down, rather than at a slant. Noon. Evidentally, I had arrived in the late morning. Although I felt no noticeable change in temperature, the cloying mist lightened, dispersing into a suggestion of opaquity.

I had yet to find any food or water.

No convenient fruit or nut trees for me. I couldn't have been paid to eat the mystery berries. The fact that they were so plentiful in a forest teeming with wildlife was highly suspicious. And the mushrooms? Ha! That was an ugly death waiting to happen.

Tilting my head back, I marveled once more at the sheer _girth_ of the trees looming like skyscrapers.

 _Is tree bark edible...?_ I blinked at the thought; there certainly was a surplus. _That happened in Hunger Games. Chewing it then spitting it out. But wasn't that pine bark? Is there a difference?_ I considered a climbing-vine as I passed it. _I saw a guy on TV peel the skin off of something like that and eat the plant fiber within._

I coughed into my elbow, then sighed. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I should have watched more reality TV."

 _Oh, no._

An appalling realization dawned upon me with the chill of proverbial clouds passing over the sun. I almost dropped the pocketknife.

"Insects." I touched my face, which had become a rictus of repulsion. "That's my best food source. _Insects._ " How many times had I seen people eat writhing, many-legged bugs in commercials for reality shows? Violent shudders wracked my body at the thought.

"They're full of protein!" I recalled, horrified.

My eyes flicked to the dark crevisces in bark, the twitching leaves of the forest floor, and every tiny spec darting through the mist. Bugs. Bugs everywhere. Creeping, crawling, flying. _Buzzing._ I rubbed my arms. Imaginary insects prickled my scalp, my legs, under my shirt.

I glared at the forest. _If Edward Elric could eat bugs to survive when he was seven years old, I can do it at twenty-one!_

 _But he didn't do it immediately,_ I reasoned with myself.

"I'm at _least_ waiting until tomorrow," I decreed to the unknowing woodland. Dropping my chin to my collar bone, I regarded my stomach. Not overweight, quite, but still rounded. I had fat to burn. "Although," I murmured, brightening, "I'm much more likely to die of thirst before it ever comes to that."

That soothed me, somehow. Macabe humor.

Perhaps it was arrogant or naive of me, but in a place so green and lush, the ground soft and loamy, I had expected to find a water source quickly. The plants had to be getting it from somewhere, and there were no signs of recent rainfall—droplets, puddles, or even clouds, in what little I could see of the sky. Just...vapor.

 _I could always chew on plants for moisture. Tree leaves ought to be safe._ Enough weedy saplings stretched above the ungrowth that I'd have a decent supply.

But that wouldn't offer enough water to live off of. Panic squeezed my chest.

 _Maybe it's so humid I won't need_ _to drink._

I chuckled to myself, feeling my expression twist into something alarming. Other methods of emoting risked my composure, which risked my life. I laughed louder. The sound seemed abrupt, out-of-place.

 _In a way, it is funny_ — _didn't I love stories like this, growing up? Being wisked away to a strange world...  
_

Pulling up the bottom of my shirt, I mopped the sweat from my face. For a moment, I rested my head in my hands, breathing through the fabric. Closing my eyes came as a relief. My head hurt. An aching, fragile place in my chest trembled. _Help me, God. Help me. I'm gonna die.  
_

Sniffing, I blinked at the walls of bark. Time to mark my direction in a tree; I had a pattern to keep up.

* * *

—

* * *

"Stupid bark," I muttered, snapping my pocketknife closed. "Doing its stupid job, protecting the stupid tree."

Stepping back from my weakest arrow yet, I marched in what may or may not have been an animal trail. _Winding inanely or not, it's more likely to lead to water than I am._

I massaged my palm with my thumb. I suspected I would have a bruise tomorrow from the knife handle.

 _Aren't there two different kinds of bark?_ My gaze drifted, thoughtful. One of them almost smooth, rather than dense and craggy? The first sounded better to carve on, certainly, but I had no confidence in such vaguely remembered facts.

Without breaking my stride, I stooped to pluck a damp, yellow-green leaf from underfoot, and turned the specimen over in my hands. Gritty bits of dirt stuck to the surface. It was bigger than my hand—perhaps to be expected from such monstrous trees. Five points, like a maple leaf. Smooth-edged, although I didn't remember what that meant. Junior high biology seemed a lifetime ago. It had...veins.

 _I wish I remembered more about nature._

Tossing away the leaf, I sighed, rattling phlegm in my esophogus. Despite the growing feeling of uselessness _,_ I tilted my face upward, continuing my observations.

The only trees I knew of that grew _this_ big were redwoods. They were beasts of nature, so large that roads could be tunneled through them—but weren't they supposed to be _red?_ These had dark brown bark. I didn't know the branching pattern of redwoods, but these shot out horizontally like pine trees, excepting their lack of lower branches.

 _Maybe I'm in California._ I looked around myself at the unfathomable maze, as if expecting to see a beach. _Could be a different breed of redwood. And California has mountains, which would allow for the uneven terrain.  
_

I wrinkled my nose. _Bad logic. Fitting an idea to the facts, rather than fitting facts into a hypothesis._ A bird winged up to the green-cast sky, too far away to examine. _Not that I have anything better to work with_ —

A dark figure leapt the branches high above, silhouetted by the sunlight, and vanished.

Gasping, I clapped a hand over my mouth. _Was that a monkey?_

My eyes ached with strain as I searched the trees. Sunlight glimmered between peacefully swaying boughs. _That couldn't have been! Monkeys don't live in America!_ My stomach lurched. _I'm going to be so pissed if I'm not in America. Oh, God. Please let me be in America.  
_

Fear of the unknown gripped my chest. My breath came fast. Clutching my tiny knife close to myself, I listened for anything that would indicate large mammals other than myself. Even rustling leaves seemed threatening. An insect whined in my ear. Cringing pathetically, I flapped it away. Chills crawled over my skin.

 _Something touched my arm._

I jumped and flailed, dislodging something small from my skin. A squeak caught in my throat. My gaze snapped onto the dark, tiny thing I had sent flying. It wafted on blurred wings in a wide arc, then landed on my denim-protected leg.

 _It's a beetle._ _Just a tiny beetle._ Every muscle in my body seemed to relax. Sighing, I pressed a hand over my thundering heart, then chuckled. "I have _got_ to calm down. Gosh."

Feeling silly, I glanced around the cheerful woods. No danger to be found. _Maybe I was hallucinating._

 _Whatever. Monkey or not_ _, it's not here. Something is only a threat if it's present. Chill._

Slowly, so as to not startle it, I pressed my hand palm-up beside the insect. "Hello. Sorry about that. I'm a bit jumpy, if you hadn't noticed." I couldn't stand buzzing, but the bugs themselves? As long as they didn't sting or bite or _suck my blood_ —damn those mosquitoes—I didn't mind them at all.

"I must be starved for conversation to talk to a bug," I told it amiably. "I don't even plan on eating you, because I'm not that desperate."

 _Yet._

It picked its way delicately onto my fingertip. Smiling, I held it up to the light. "Oh, you're very pretty."

Rich emerald seemed deeper than the shell of a beetle would allow. Sunlight illuminated faint swirls of gold and subtle nuances in its green hue. It probably blended in quite well among leaves.

 _I wish I had my sketch book._ If I could get down all of the little details—the leaf-like pattern of its shell and tummy, the minuscule hairs on its black legs, the folds of its joints—I was sure I could recreate the color scheme from memory. The blending wouldn't be that different from a sunset, although capturing the metallic sheen would be a new experience...

Some unseen stimulus caused the bug to scuttle around the back of my hand and up my arm. It moved alarmingly fast.

"Hey, now." I transferred the pocketknife to my other hand, then cupped a palm over the beetle. 'Nice' bug or not, nothing would stop me from panicking if it got under my clothes.

All at once, weakness seeped through my body. My head throbbed, the constant ache becoming abruptly worse. Dizziness swam through me. I didn't _sit_ down so much as I controlled my fall onto a protrudent tree-root thicker than myself. _Oh, no, no, no! I cannot afford to be sick..._ I dropped my poor head into my hands.

The lovely beetle flew away. I twitched at the buzz, but it went nowhere near my ears.

Self-pity squeezed my throat. My eyes grew hot, but I shut them and breathed deeply through my nose. _This_ _just makes finding water even more important._ I pursed my lips, determined. _If I'm getting sick, my health will only get worse. Now is my best chance to find a way to survive._

Regretfully, I snapped the knife closed and slipped it into my pocket. I would have to pick up the pace. That meant no more marking my path—at least not as often. I forced myself to my feet, pretending I wasn't blinking back tears.

"Anatawadare," said a male voice from behind me.

Fear seized my body as a puppet by its strings. I didn't remember moving. Terror blinded me. It seemed only a heartbeat later that I stood with my feet braced, ready to bolt, facing the stranger—

He was a _Naruto_ cosplayer.

My brain tripped over that thought. My expression blanked.

 _What._

* * *

 **End chapter two.**


	3. Chapter 3

Goodness dear, forgive my awful Japanese. I used Google translator. I'm afraid there will be much more of that to come, so if anyone more knowledgeable than I would like to save me from butchering a wonderful language, feel free to send me an enlightening message/review.

 **Chapter three:**

* * *

Sunlight glinted off of his forehead protector, Konoha's stylized leaf etched darkly in the center. It seemed like real metal, the navy cloth textured and sturdy. Definitely not commercial merchandise. Frizz escaped his brown ponytail, framing his temples. Sharp, half-moon sunglasses granted an eternal deadpan expression.

Not Shino, then, but definitely an Aburame, judging by the jacket. Long, almost to the knees. Olive green. The high collar zipped to his nose. Voluminous sleeves obscured hands tucked into large pockets. A thick belt secured twin messenger bags to each hip. Medical tape wrapped the ends of loose, navy pants to his shins. Typical ninja sandals.

Outstanding quality, all of it. Probably home-made or commissioned.

I was staring.

"Watashi wa—" The cosplayer leaned forward. "—'anatawadare?' to nobemashita."

Fear thrilled in my stomach. _That tone sounds serious._

 _(Do something. Cosplayers mean civilization.)_

I felt frozen. Sheer astonishment stalled my brain. Today hardly seemed real. As if I would wake up from a particularly elaborate dream. _No. Stay in the present. This is real._ The loamy forest smells, throbbing of my temples, and moisture clinging my T-shirt to my back. _Think, girl. Act. Don't be incompetent._

My mind utterly blank, I opened my mouth to speak:

"Uh." I swallowed, my sore throat clicking. "I'm so sorry. You startled me." My manners had more presence than my brain. "I...can't tell what you're saying." _There. Pertinent information. Keep going._ "My name is Amy Wilson. Do you speak English?"

"Nanda ittai?"

A new voice. Male. Incredulous.

"Oh, f—!" My fingers flew to my mouth as I spun around.

Upon a root taller than myself stood another cosplayer. Foreboding weighed in my stomach. _Two. There's two of them, now_.

The man considered me with raised eyebrows, olive-toned arms crossed. The Konoha hitai-ate glinted on his sleeveless bicep. His flak vest could have belonged to any background character, but it looked _functional,_ like something a soldier would use. A strangely shaped shadow drew my attention to the side of his face—

Alarm and concern lurched within me. Politeness snapped my gaze back to his eyes. _Goodness, he's missing half an ear._

Leaves crunched behind me. I flinched badly, finding the Aburame within arms reach. There was— _buzzing_.

Skin crawling, I took a step back and raised my hand. "Hey, now—"

"Shitsumon ni kotaete." Hands still in his pockets, the cosplayer stepped closer. "Anata wa koko de nani o shite iru no?"

"Look, I'm sorry if I'm trespassing," I said soothingly, hoping my tone would communicate where English couldn't, "but I'm lost. I don't know how I got here. I need help." Keeping one hand raised, I slowly reached for my back pocket to retrieve my cards. Terror squeezed my chest. _Creepy costumed man advancing on me in the woods, another one directly behind me._ _Dear Lord. Keep me safe. Let this be a blessing. Let me be overreacting. Please._

I nearly dropped them. My stomach plummeted. Holding the student and debit cards close, I proffered the driver's license to the Aburame.

My hand was trembling.

The _buzzing_ intensified as the man withdrew his pale hand from his pocket. The sound shivered beneath my skin, between my teeth. An audio device, certainly, and A-plus cosplaying... I wanted to clutch my ears. He took the card without our fingers brushing.

He peered at it from different angles—examining the hologram overlay. I chose it over the cheap student ID for that reason. It looked official. The collar and sunglasses betrayed nothing of his expression. Switching the license to his other hand, the Aburame retrieved a small, waxy piece of paper from his messenger bag, then held the two side-by-side. A familiar hairband dangled from his fingers.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, far louder than I had intended. "My receipt!" Looking into the deadpan sunglasses, I pointed excitedly between myself and the receipt. "That's mine!"

 _Why does he have it?_

The smile slipped from my face.

"Ā..." At the sound, I turned to the half-eared cosplayer. He pointed at me, arms still crossed, and jutted out a hip. "Watashi wa mae ni sono gengo o kiita koto ga arimasen." The comment appeared to be aimed at the trees.

A voice of indeterminate gender wafted from above: "Tabun kanojo wa hontōni watashitachi o rikai shite imasen."

"What the crap?" I followed the half-eared man's gaze, but saw nothing. My eyes traced the trunks stretching to the sky, finally landing upon the overlapping branches and canopy.

Still nothing.

 _This is really weird. Who did he talk to...? Is there a speaker system?_ Thoroughly confused, I scrubbed my eyes. Stress filled them with tears.

"Uchiha," called the Aburame cosplayer.

 _That_ word I recognized _._ I looked at him strangely, sniffling. His hands drew my attention; they flicked and formed shapes. Not the _Naruto_ hand-seals, but actual sign language. I didn't know any of his signs. _Hey. Where'd my license go?_

The Aburame tucked his hands into his pockets. Before I could question my license's whereabouts:

"Rikai," a fourth voice said crisply. A man rounded the wall of a tree, striding over roots as easily as stairs. _Apparently these woods are just full of people._ He wore a flak vest with a black, long-sleeved shirt underneath, the Uchiha fan emblazoned on the shoulder. He moved with a certain competency of body, like— _ah._

 _These guys act like soldiers!_

It'd been on the edge of my brain. They reminded me of seeing a plainclothed soldier in the grocery store. Something about their economy of movement, or body language.

 _Huh. Soldiers cosplaying together. That's...super nerdy and adorable. And would maybe explain why they'd follow a trail of a receipt and carved arrows. Especially if I'm trespassing. Hope I'm not grasping at straws. God, please let these guys help me._

The Uchiha cosplayer stopped at a comfortable speaking distance. Deep-set eyes stared from a long face. His tearducts hinted an epicanthical fold. Dark brown bangs partially obscured a Konoha hitai-ate. Not a character I recognized.

I tilted my head to the side, examining his contact lenses. "Uh... Hello."

His Sharingan's three thingamabobs didn't look like commas, as I had seen in pictures. More like baby pupils that branched off from the center. Interesting. Exquisite detail in the iris, as well: two rings of muscle, one within the other, with all of the differing hues one would expect from a natural eye...

All thoughts swept away when he spoke: "Watashi ga iu koto o wakarimasu ka?"

"Huh?" I said intelligently. "I don't..."

 _When did he get so close?_

 _Doesn't matter._

 _His eyes are...big._

"Anata wa Konohagakure ni kyōi o ataeru nodesu ka?" His voice filled my ears like water.

 _Another word I know._

"What're... Are you...talking about your...show?" I asked, confusion growing into incredulity. "This isn't about your LARPing." My tone stayed soft and calm. "Please take this seriously. I'm kinda freakin' out."

The Uchiha looked at the Aburame, his crimson gaze abruptly turning black. All at once, he was back where he'd started, and the forest-sounds resumed—not that they'd ever stopped. "Watashi no Sharingan ni wa itsuwari ga kenshutsu sa remasendeshita."

 _What?_ I rubbed my throbbing temples. Their words flowed over my head; I didn't bother trying to discern them. _I cannot zone out like that. Dangerous, being that unaware. Get ahold of yourself._

 _His eyes_...

 _They're definitely dark now. Normal._ I frowned, feeling strangely muddled. _Is it based on direction? Must be. Like a picture that changes depending on the angle you look at it._ Whatever those were called. _That's really clever. I didn't know contact lenses could be made like that._

The Aburame turned to me, ponytail brushing his coat. "No wa, kanojo no naka o jisan shimashou."

 _That sounded like an order._

A crunch of leaves—the half-eared man had leapt from his tall perch as easily as breathing. Impressive, but perhaps not unexpected from an athlete. He stood at attention with the Uchiha. _More evidence for the cosplaying soldiers theory._

"Gōmon oyobi torishirabe ga kanojo o narabe kaeru koto ga dekimasu." The Aburame craned his neck, revealing a plain, clean-shaven face. He addressed the trees: "Kanojo o kensaku shite kudasai."

Wind, usually absent in the maze of bark walls, brushed my neck.

"Kashikomarimashita," said the voice of indeterminate gender from _right beside me_ —

Squawking, I thrust my elbow outward. It didn't connect; the auburn head ducked my reflex. I stumbled back, hands fluttering anxiously—and looked down.

"Warukunai." The lady smirked. She stood a head-and-a-half shorter than myself. Chin-length hair framed her round face. Armor plated her shins and forearms, matching the hitai-ate tied around her neck with maroon fabric. She made sarcastic jazz-hands. "Odoroki."

 _Oh, thank goodness._ I pressed a hand over my startled heart. Relief poured over me. I couldn't have even been annoyed. _A woman. Not surrounded by men in the woods where no one can hear me scream anymore.  
_

Then she plucked the pencil from my bun. My ponytail spilled down my back.

"What on—" My hand flew to my hair. The cosplayer turned the mechanical pencil over, examining it. "Hey!"

She slid it into a pocket of her flak vest, and said airily, "Daijōbuda yo."

"You do _not_ just take things from people. That is not how we behave." I employed my best Mom Voice, although I suspected adults older than myself were immune. Maintaining eye contact, I held out my palm. "Please give that back."

The crazy cosplayer raised an eyebrow, then gave my Psychology class T-shirt a judgmental once-over. A picture of Sigmund Freud adorned the front with the caption: If It's Not A Cigar, Then It's Your Mother. (The back displayed the names of my yearmates in tiny lettering.)

With a frustrated noise in my throat that dissolved into frustrated coughing, I turned to the men in the clearing, hoping for some assistance. Only the Uchiha cosplayer paid any attention. He looked bored.

"Itsuki." The Aburame gestured the half-eared man closer, then opened one of his messenger bags. "Anata wa saikō no watashitachi no horyo o yusō suru no ni tekishite imasu." He handed two rolls of something, one of them metallic, to the half-eared man—Itsuki? Was that a name? "Keisei ni watashi o kirikaemasu."

"Hai," chirped Itsuki.

 _Something's touching my hair._

"What is _wrong_ with you?" I whipped my ponytail out of the _weird lady's grubby hands._ "I don't have any more pencils."

"Daijōbuda yo." The kunoichi cosplayer stepped into my personal space, patting my front pockets. I slapped her hands and scrambled away. She stuck to me like a bur, waving my protests with: "Daijōbuda yo. Daijōbuda yo!"

 _She stole the pocket knife from Daddy._

Scarlet fury rose in me like acid. "That—is—mine!"

A long, sleeveless arm reached from behind me and grabbed my far wrist. Itsuki spun me around so I faced him, my back to crazy lady. "Sumimasen."

I gaped openly, and tugged at my wrist. He didn't let go.

"What the fuck?" I grabbed at his thumb with my free hand; he captured that wrist as well. Fear dripped ice-cold down my spine. "Am I being _mugged?_ " I demanded incredulously. _Let that be all. Please let that be all, God._ "What are you doing?"

Ignoring me, Itsuki reached for his thigh pouch.

Sensing an opening, I struggled with all of my might to escape his _one hand._ Nothing worked. I used my wrist bone 'like a knife,' as I was told, against the weakest part of his grip; I tried to knee him in the groin, but he twisted his hips away and raised my wrists so I stood on my toes; I kicked his shins, which had some sort of protection under the navy pants and wrappings. _Stupid practical costumes._

"Let me go," I begged weakly, knowing it was useless. Even if they understood me, there was no reasoning with them. _This can't be happening. I'm suffering a mental break or something. Oh, God._

Itsuki lowered my wrists so I could stand. My hands throbbed as blood returned to them. He struggled one-handed with something held close to his side. Behind me, the kunoichi cosplayer freely pilfered my pockets. I barely felt her. Had I not already known she was there, I probably wouldn't have noticed being robbed.

Sighing, Itsuki raised a roll of bandages to his mouth, and used his teeth to peel off a long, white strip.

My eyes bulged. _Hell no._

Without warning, I lunged with bared teeth to _bite his fucking thumb off_ —

"Ah!" I choked as the kunoichi cosplayer yanked my head by the ponytail.

Calm as could be, Itsuki began wrapping my wrists in the bandages, like they did this every day. _Well, shit, maybe they do._

"Sore ga kenmeidesu ka?" asked the kunoichi cosplayer, releasing my ponytail. She patted down my legs.

"Kanojo wa nani no chakura, mu kin'niku-ryō o motteinai—" Itsuki passed the bandages to the kunoichi cosplayer, who proceeded to bind my ankles. "—to kanojo no sode de kanojo no kokoro o mi ni tsukete iru ka—" The half-eared man retrieved a second spool, then wound metal wire around my wrists. "—watashi ga imamade mita naka de saikō no ki no joyūdearu no izureka."

Itsuki clamped the spool between his teeth to free a hand. He produced a terrifyingly real-looking kunai—my heart stopped—and severed the wire. It only loosely surrounded my wrists, not tight enough to restrain. He passed the metal coil to the kunoichi cosplayer. "Daijōbu; kono hōhōde wa, kanojo o hakobu tame no yori benridesu," he said with an air of finality.

The female cosplayer wrapped the wire loosely around my ankles.

 _Maybe I'm not crazy. Maybe these_ _guys are crazy._ I glanced at the others—

Off to the side of the clearing, the Aburame spoke into an earpiece.

"HELP! I'M BEING KIDNAPPED!" I screamed so loud my ears rang and my throat burned. Birds took flight. My voice echoed up the trunks, into the sky.

The thieving lady slapped my hip. "Sore o teishi suru!" she complained. Itsuki leaned away from me. The Aburame and Uchiha cosplayers stared at me, but otherwise didn't react. The Aburame continued speaking in a calm manner.

I groaned in distress. Whoever they spoke to wouldn't help me.

Itsuki released me and stepped back. I swayed on my bound feet, fearful that I would fall. He formed a _Naruto_ hand-seal.

 _Looking more crazy by the second._

The metal around my wrists and ankles _came to life_.

"Shit! Shit, get it off—!" I screamed, wobbled, but kept my balance. The wire coiled like a snake, squeezing tightly, conforming to the shape of my limbs. It sliced through the top layers of thick bandaging. Light reflected from the metal like water. The severed ends melted together, then the wire stilled.

Before I could recover, Itsuki scooped me off of my feet, bridal style, as if I weighed nothing.

I was trembling.

The kunoichi cosplayer stole my shoes. I stared at my purple Batgirl socks. I did _not_ stare at the possessed restraints. She examined the sneakers from every possible angle, then thoughtfully put them back on my feet. I did nothing. I was beyond words, or even tears. Her hip cocked to the side, the kunoichi pointed at her own eyes, then at Itsuki's.

He snorted.

Finally, she gave the Aburame cosplayer a thumbs-up.

The buzzing man nodded to the Uchiha cosplayer. "Ikou."

As if that word was a gunshot and he a runner, the Uchiha cosplayer took off...straight toward a tree. He navigated the enormous roots with admirable grace. His momentum even carried him up the trunk several feet—surprisingly far—farther than I would have thought possible—

 _He's not falling._

Vertigo scrambled my brain. My body _felt_ gravity, knew what Up and Down were; my eyes _saw_ gravity, knew that Up and Down were in relation to the Uchiha. My world tilted. Nausea churned my stomach.

Itsuki began running.

"Oh no." Terror climbed up my throat like a shriek. Each step jarred me. The tree came closer. "Oh, no. Oh, no." Itsuki forewent the tall roots. He leaped clear over them, leaving my stomach behind. "OH, NO—"

His sandaled feet impacted the bark. I squeezed my eyes shut, still expecting to fall. Rhythmic steps, smoother than on the ground. Wind blew straight down. Itsuki's arms didn't support my weight, his _chest_ did, his arms only held me in place. I curled into a cramped, painful ball. _Gravity is wrong. This is wrong. We keep going up. Keep going up. Gonna fall. Worse than a rollercoaster. I'm gonna throw up._ I pressed my fists against my mouth.

My kidnapper squeezed me tightly, which I actually _really_ appreciated.

I forced my eyes open, because the imagined fear was worse than the seen fear. _Jaws_ logic. Batman logic. Also I had stopped believing we were running up a tree.

We _were_ running up a tree.

 _Holy shit._

 _Or I'm insane. Probably that._ Sunlight glittered between the canopy like stars. Dark branches as thick as roads loomed closer. The Uchiha cosplayer ran above us like something made from CG. _All the world's a hallucination. The wrist and ankle bindings signify my straight jacket. The cosplayers signify escapism.  
_

I chose not to look down.

With the majesty of a whale diving in an aquarium, an enormous branch became level with us. It seemed impossible for a tree to grow so huge.

"Tsukamatte iru," said Itsuki, his voice right by my ear. His upper body tensed. _Preparing for something?_

Ahead, the Uchiha sprang from the wall of bark, flipped as lithely as a gymnast in the leaf-strewn sky, and landed upon the branch beside us. His stride didn't break. He continued running.

 _We're gonna do that._

A scream built in my throat like a teakettle's whistle. My fists pinched my lips between my teeth. We dipped as Itsuki bent his knees, then we _launched_ up—

Weightless. Like the peak of a rollercoaster. I held my breath. Falling. _We're falling._ My stomach flipped. The world turned on its axis. Gravity righted itself. Up was the sky. Down was beneath Itsuki's feet. His arms bore my weight.

The landing jolted the breath from my lungs.

Running. The rhythm of Itsuki's steps felt different. Less smooth. I looked at the Uchiha's legs. _By Naruto rules, chakra-running requires a foot on the tree at all times. Less bumpy. Not when normal running._ _But that's fiction. This isn't real. This can't be real._ I pressed my bound hands to my racing heart. It felt unusually fast. Bad. There wasn't enough oxygen. My head swam.

The wind became stronger; or, rather, we ran faster. I squinted against the drying of my eyes. The verdant glow of sunlit leaves blurred. Ahead, the Uchiha's arms drifted backward in the wind. It seemed natural. My sister laughed when she first saw Naruto-running on TV.

The Uchiha leaped impossibly far, arms akimbo to dive chest-first, and landed on a perpendicular branch.

"Oh, no—" We dipped, then bounded into the air. _This is worse. This is worse. I preferred freaky vertical running._

I looked down.

Dizzying. Blurred. _So far to fall_ —

Sudden landing. My cheek smacked his bicep. Tree bark, painted golden in the sun, covered the view.

" _Oh_ , I'm gonna throw up." I pressed my face into the stiff neck of Itsuki's flak vest. "Don't lemme throw up. Lord preserve my sanity. Shit, shit, shit—" We dipped. I clamped my mouth and eyes shut. We soared, weightless, then jarred a landing. _I hate this. I hate this._ Sandals hardly touched the bark for a moment, then we were soaring again, and again—

Saliva flooded my mouth. I swallowed repeatedly, trying to stave my rising gorge. Up and down. Yanking my stomach along by a string. Time became elastic. Ambivalent. Stretching and shrinking at once. Up and down.

 _Nope._ Bile seared my throat. _Don't got this. I don't_ —

Frantic yanking against my restraints yielded nothing. I lurched over Itsuki's arms; he yanked me back as we dipped, then launched _up_ —

Vomit arced through the air.

Itsuki began yelling. Unseen, boyish laughter from the kunoichi stifled quickly. I closed my eyes as we fell toward another branch.

As we had every time, we landed without injury. Itsuki prompty deposited me upon the bark. I curled over my knees, shaking uncontrollably. Bark grazed my forehead. Spit and bile dribbled from my lips. Tears caged behind my eyelashes spilled over. My breath hitched quietly.

Birds sang overhead. Voices spoke a language I couldn't understand. I didn't try to listen.

The world spun. My skin burned hot and cold. Sweat itched under the restraints on my wrists and ankles. I wiped my mouth on my denim-covered knee. Everything hurt. I felt sick and miserable and scared.

Someone knelt beside me. Gentle hands on my shoulders turned me toward a flak vest. Black sleeves, red and white fan. The Uchiha. I looked up blearily—

—into bulging, crimson eyes. The three tiny pupils were spinning...impossibly...

Sleep swallowed me.

* * *

 **End chapter three.**

Whew, that was long. This chapter was shockingly difficult to write. I couldn't seem to find a good place to break it. Hope it didn't drag.

I apologize again for what I've done to the Japanese language. It deserved better.

Please inform me if you find any mistakes! I don't have spellcheck. (Weejee instead of Ouija from the first chapter comes to mind. Yikes. Thanks for the catch, anon!)


	4. Chapter 4

Inhale.

Exhale.

Pause.

My hands cupped my mouth and nose. Pressing them closed. A panicky ache grew from my stomach to my throat. I stared at my toes. Nails painted crimson.

When lack of oxygen became painful, I gasped, lurching upright in the chair. My head swam. I focused on the sound of air rushing between my fingers. Like Darth Vader. My lungs expanded as far as they could. The air smelled stale, like a basement, and faintly of sweat and chemicals _._ _  
_

Bowing over my knees, I exhaled slowly. Warmth bloomed between my palms.

Pause.

The warmth dissipated. I felt clammy. My heart throbbed against my empty lungs.

Inhale. Leaning backward. Darth Vader.

Exhale. Forward. Warmth.

Pause.

 _I am suffering from a mental break._

* * *

—

* * *

Air scraped my sinuses. My lungs inflated slowly. I stared over my fingertips, my gaze glassy. Unable to close my eyes, but trying not to see. (Grey cinderblocks under artificial light.)

 _It's okay. It's okay. Repress. Shhh. It's okay._

My body strained like a balloon fit to burst. I curved my spine, folding over my thighs. Warm breath pushed against my palms. My head chilled, heat draining from my forehead. Ringing filled my ears.

Pause.

* * *

—

* * *

My heart beat steadily. Long breaths defined sound. My thoughts felt cloudy, but peaceful.

Kind of. Mostly peaceful. Like a creamy twilight image of swaying flowers, but the subtitle read: Terrified Screaming.

 _That makes no sense._

Inhale.

I rocked upright. My gaze wandered the ceiling as my lungs swelled. Twin vents on opposite sides of the room, maybe two inches tall. A large, circular bulb embedded in the middle of the ceiling illuminated the cell. A security camara glinted from the upper right-hand corner. Not one of those domes, but an old, rectangular model suspended from the ceiling.

Curiosity stirred for the first time since being imprisoned. _Does that mean there's a blind spot directly beneath it?_

Holding that breath—I didn't want to break the soothing pattern—I twisted to look behind myself, hands still cupping my face. The circular lense of a camara stared darkly from the opposite corner. _No blind spot._

Not that I would have done anything, had there been. I had neither the skill nor the gumption to antagonize the Japanese government.

Breath burst from my mouth, blowing between my fingers. I scrunchedover my lap. Elbows dug into my thighs. _Don't think about that. Don't think about that. It's okay.  
_

My calm trickled away. Anxiety squeezed my shoulders in a painful grip. Cramps rolled down my back.

Pause.

I didn't let myself breath until my lungs screamed for oxygen. My heart drummed in my ears. _Don't think. Don't think. It's okay. Don't think.  
_

Inhale. Backward. Relief flooded my body.

Exhale. Forward.

Pause.

* * *

—

* * *

 _I can't tell if this is real.  
_

* * *

—

* * *

Pressure built in my temples, then my lungs. I stared at the rusty drain between my bare, ice-cold feet. Brown crusted the circular edge, clung to the corners of the little square holes, the two screws. Not meant for excrement disposal. Fluids only. Not a long-term cell. Too clean.

Inhale. Air chilled my teeth as I sat upright.

My wide eyes found the crack in the wall. Hair-thin. Like a lightning strike descending from the ceiling. The metal door beside it had no visible features: no handle, no hinges, no frame. Just a dark liner on the bottom. Maybe rubber. Probably airtight.

Exhale. Forward. Warmth.

Pause.

Behind my heels, the chair legs bolted to the floor. Manacles gaped like hungry mouths. Their hinges gleamed as only the recently cleaned could. Matching restraints crowned the arms. A contraption meant for clamping a head in place folded behind the chair's back.

The drain wasn't rusty.

* * *

—

* * *

My lungs filled sweetly. I stared at the light directly above my chair. Blinding. Circular. I imagined it blinking first.

 _They have my card. They have my ID. They could send me home, if they wanted to._ If the thought was meant to cheer me, it didn't work. _Assuming this is the Japanese government._ Despair shrivelled something vital inside. Like a kidney. _They just speak the language. These guys could be anyone._

 _But they must be organized. They have this facility._

Holding cells and an examination room, at least. I vaguely remembered a cold table and rubber hands. My mind shied away from details. Then I heard a grinding, mechanical sound; felt someone gripping my upper arms, but no restraints. The metal chair gleamed under the yellow spotlight. I drew a blank on everything in-between.

Eventually, slow glaciers of thought melted to lucidity. I could _think._

Then I panicked. A lot. Because with thought came self-awareness, and—

 _I've been kidnapped. Lord help me, I've been kidnapped._ Terror skittered like spiders under my skin. I moaned, curling forward. Head between my knees. Emptying lungs. The light left a dark afterimage under my eyelids.

Pause.

Thoughts of what happened to girls like me in situations like this crowded my head. I bit my tongue. Saliva filled my mouth. _Stop it._

 _But it's true._

 _Possibly,_ I conceded to myself, _but that wasn't how the cosplayers behaved. Those were men who respected women._ An instinctive impression formed by their body language, how they looked at me...even when they _fucking kidnapped me,_ dude kept his hands to himself.

 _They took my clothes._ Starchy, off-white trousers and a wrap-around tunic replaced my jeans and T-shirt. A violent, full-body shudder of _violation_ triggered the gasp for oxygen. I levered upright.

 _But why replace them? If I need clothes for transporting_ — _for survival, maybe—it'd be less expensive to leave me alone. These seem like something a hospital would provide. Then they gave me a cell all to myself. Not very economic. None of this says human trafficking. It's like I'm a prisoner...except they didn't lock me in the chair! What is that? Some sort of psychological message?  
_

 _Nothing makes sense._

Exhale. Forward. I stared at the brown flakes on the drain. The spotlight's afterimage hovered over it like an eclipse. My lungs hurt. I squeezed my nose and mouth between my palms.

 _How can this be real?_

* * *

—

* * *

I traced the crack in the wall with my eyes, deep in thought. My lungs inflated slowly. The precise words escaped me. Frustration exacerbated my stress. For several minutes, I struggled to scrape them together.

Triumph soothed my headache as I recalled: _'If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'_

Sherlock Holmes. Daddy owned a collection of those stories. I always intended to read them, but never got around to it. ( _Don't think, don't think_ —) The quote may have been Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's, but I could only hear it in Spock's measured voice. Star Trek.

 _I'm being very illogical, aren't I?_

Misery clenched my heart. My torso folded over my thighs, my breath fleeing in a rush between my damp hands. I squeezed my lungs empty, focusing on the discomfort. My shoulders trembled. The muscles in my neck stiffened. _Don't think. Just be calm. Repress.  
_

Pause.

Inhale. Upright.

 _Eliminate the impossible. Okay. How?_

 _There is one great variable. Either I am delusional, or reality is stranger than I imagined._

I stared, deadpan, at the lightning-bolt-crack.

Dismay settled like a shroud. _Is it even possible to prove whether I'm delusional to myself?_

( _This exercise didn't go very far_.)

Groaning in my hands, I curled forward.

Pause.

 _Well. I feel coherent. Although perhaps I shouldn't trust my feelings._ Dirt discolored my ankles in the shape of the curved lip of my tennis shoes. _Facts, then. The forest definitely happened. I smell like it. Look like it. Physically feel like it._

Inhaling, I rocked backward. I stretched my legs out, taking care not to touch the drain. My muscles ached in the healthy, satisfying way of good exercise. (My butt, on the other hand, did not appreciate sitting on the edge of a metal seat. I avoided sporting events and the requisite bleachers for that reason.)

 _Fact: the woods happened._

I nodded, soaking in the feeling of _knowing_ something. A satisfying thing, like crossing off an item on a list.

 _The giant trees are in question, but I have no method of testing their existence._ I curled my fingers away from my mouth, looking down at them. They seemed very far away. Scabs crusted my knuckles, implying that I had carved on _something_ , if not the redwood-like trees... _If I'm deluded, I could have been bumbling about scratching arrows on anything._ An unsettling prospect. _I am, however, absolutely being held captive by a bunch of Japanese-speakers_ —

 _Stop. Examine that._

 _Fact: I don't speak Japanese, but I know it when I hear it._

 _Because I'm incapable of replicating it, I wouldn't be able to hallucinate it._

 _Is that true?_ I squeezed my eyes shut. Shapes swam under my eyelids. I struggled to think; unless I maintained a structure everything would collapse. _Supposedly, the human brain remembers much more than anyone can actively recall. I've watched my fair share of anime. If that theory holds true, my brain might be able to fool me._ _  
_

Frustration warred in my temples. _Without new information, that one's stuck. I'm gonna slap a 'highly probable' on the Japanese-speakers._

 _Being held captive by them lends credence to the idea of my being displaced. (Don't think, don't think_ _—) Not necessarily abroad, just...somewhere else. Therefore, the trees are plausible._

 _Then arrived the_ Naruto _cosplayers. If I'm somehow displaced, they're about as likely as the trees._

I wiped my palms on my jeans, then my mouth on my shoulder. _Basically, everything is 'plausible' because I don't know anything,_ I concluded reluctantly, before sighing. _This whole day is like a bad trip. I must be crazy. I just..._ _I hadn't even thought about that show in forever. Why would I hallucinate it? Maybe I'm looking for reason where there inherently is none, but_ —

"—it's just so weird."

I shrank in on myself, heart racing. My voice seemed so _loud_ in the dead cell. My eyes snapped from the frontward camara to the gunmetal door.

Silence stretched like a drip of molasses. A weight prevented my chest from expanding. I was frozen. Not enough air. Hairs stood on end. Extremities tingled.

Nothing happened.

 _Stop this. You're doing this to yourself,_ some part of me recognized. _Breath deeply. Stop and breath._

 _I'm gonna die._ I had broken the hypnotic breathing pattern without realizing. It wouldn't come back. _I'm going to die here. I'm gonna die.  
_

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up_ —

One foot, then the other tucked up onto the metal seat. The change of position felt good to my knees; pins and needles swarmed my butt. I curled my fingers around my icy toes. Fine grit clung to the soles.

 _How did I get here? How did this happen? Life was just as usual, just as normal. Then_...

Sensations substituted where words failed. A long hike in an unbelievable forest. Broad, sun-dappled roads of branches; the swoop of my stomach with each leap; fresh air rushing; firm bite of metal around my wrists; being carried for the first time since I was a small child.

"Oh, stop," I mouthed, closing my eyes against vertigo. Sanity wavered like a mirage. _I'm crazy. I'm so fucking crazy._

 _Lord, everything is wrong. Save me.  
_

I shuffled sideways, and leaned against the back of the chair. An armrest dug into my back, the other against my shins. It felt good to prop my head against the chair. My throat burned. Warmth filled my eyes and lips, but I was afraid if I cried, I would go crazy, lose myself in hysterics.

 _Heh. Like I haven't been this whole time._

 _Pretty pathetic._

 _Wouldn't these drastic changes of emotion, and thus hormones, alter my delusions?_ I opened my eyes. The lockable hinge that connected the contraption to the top of the chair gleamed inches from my face. _No. The real question is: where does reality end, and delusion begin? 'Cause...I've totally been kidnapped._

Inhale. Exhale.

"Those jerks," I said mildly. Trying out talking _without_ a panic attack. As if pulled magnetically, my gaze moved to the faceless metal door. It remained closed in the corner of my eye.

I hugged my legs to my chest. _Fact: this is not the ER or a mental health fascility. Thus: I've been kidnapped._

It got easier every time.

 _Fact: my captors speak Japanese._

 _Fact: I was snatched by cosplayers._

I remembered those woods vividly, and my thought process as I traversed them. As far as I could perceive thruths, I hadn't been delusional at that point. _Fact._ However...I hadn't felt delusional when I _must_ have been, either. Dammit. Not-fact.

New angle.

The cosplayers. If they were—rather hilariously—Japanese-speaking agents undercover in anime garb...of unusually excellent quality...to avoid detection while in the middle of the wilderness...in order to snatch unsuspecting hikers...

 _The conspiracy theory falls apart rather quickly._

Placing my hands on an armrest, I tucked my thumbs between the metal and my shin bones. _I'm not going back far enough. Last I knew, I was doing lineart late at night, and I was just resting my head for a single fucking second. Then I'm in Narnia with a voodoo chalk outline..._

 _OH MY GOD, I have amnesia!_

Squealing, my head shot up and I slapped my cheeks. Relief of knowing a _single damn thing_ flooded through me. Absolutely euphoric. _I'm an amnesiac. By drug or injury, I don't know, but this explains everything. Well, not everything. But thank goodness._

Entirely against my will, tears welled and spilled over. Emotional whiplash. Wiping them away, I slipped my legs underneath the armrest, propped my elbows on it, and buried my face in my hands. My diaphram shuddered in small, uncontrollable sobs, like hiccoughs. Fucking insubordinate.

"Sorry for using your name in vain, God," I mumbled thickly. My head slid lower, drooping. I grabbed fistfuls of my hair. Like everything else, they'd taken my hairband. "I would blame my secular society, but I ought to know better. Also, I could use some help. If you've got the time. I'm really screwed. Just...some smiting would be good."

Tears dripped silently from my nose with no sign of slowing.

* * *

 **End chapter four.** (EDIT: I removed the cliffhanger. More on that below.)

Welcome to Torture and Interrogation!

Hope that wasn't frustrating! Sitting alone in a cell with nothing to do but pickle in your own devastating emotions (while the offscreen Powers That Be roll their lucky d20 for Investigation, observe boring security footage, attend meetings, and fill out paperwork) may _sound_ boring...which it is...which is why writers wiser than I expedite this kind of crap...but at the same time, it's a _big deal._ Emotionally.

Amy needed time to get her head screwed back on, anyway. Or at least get the cap lined up with the lines on the bottle. And, hey, what were you expecting? For the foreign MC to promptly be taken to the benevolent leader of this military dictatorship? HA.

EDIT: I initially included it so that the reader wouldn't feel that noooothing haaappened...but then I decided that it undermined the emotional process (Like in Man of Steel SPOILER where they switched to light, funny scenes immediately after Superman snapped Zod's friggin' neck, completely erasing any emotional weight or consequence END SPOILER) and was basically a cheap thrill. I hate cheap thrills. You ought to _earn_ your thrills.

—

 **Chapter three AU: In Which the Cosplayers are Actually Cosplayers**

Amy, through an unfortunate series of events, becomes lost in an arboritum in a foreign country. After wandering for hours, she comes upon a costumed troupe photographing themselves in the dreamy forest atmosphere. Despite the language barrier, the _Naruto_ cosplayers know she needs help.

A miscommunication ensues. Amy hysterically refuses to go with them. There is absolutely no one around for miles. The only option, other than leave her to languish in the wilderness, is to kidnap her.

Itsuki, the biggest of all of them, bodily hauls her to the Konohamobile, which unfortunately only has four seats.

Uchiha refuses to drive with someone on his lap, and would fight anyone to the death who tried to drive his car. Aburame fears the photography equipment in his twin messenger bags being damaged. Kunoichi insists she is Too Small, and would be crushed.

They force Amy to sit on Itsuki's lap. Both are intensely awkward about it.

The car is tiny, green, and Uchiha is intensely proud of it. Any complaints about the smoke smell will have one booted from the premesis. He is a cranky driver with iron control over the radio. He threatens to pull over regularly.

To no one's surprise, Kunoichi has stolen all of the snacks. (Aburame is bullied into compliance.) She is holding them hostage and demands control of the radio, but Uchiha is a stubborn bastard, and would see everyone starve before relinquishing his tunes.

Aburame, faithfully in-character, carries an insect container full of ladybugs. Although he insists the lid is perfectly sealed, ladybugs are everywhere. (Uchiha will be finding their dead husks in the Konohamobile for weeks.) Truthfully, Aburame releases a ladybug every time someone swears or annoys him. It's a game.

Driver's Best Friend status grants Itsuki shotgun privileges. The extra room has never been more appreciated. Amy and Itsuki discover a game that bridges their language barrier. They play rock-paper-scissors for two hours, at which time they reach civilization.

 **The End.**


	5. Chapter 5

Hey, kiddos! You ready for more mangled Japanese? (I am...so sorry. Just a monolinguistic American, here, using Google translator.)

 **Chapter five:**

* * *

 _Clunk_.

The heavy, metallic sound reverberated throughout the cell. I flinched, my knees banging the underside of the armrest. Adrenaline electrified my body. As I whipped my tear-streaked face to the entrance, the smooth sheet of a door rattled up into the ceiling.

A nazi wearing a forehead protector stood at the threshold. Grey, high-collared uniform jacket belted at the waist. Four breast pockets. Matching slacks perfectly creased down the front. Boots vanished beneath the pant-legs. Only thing missing was a swastika armband.

"Hajimemashite," the man rumbled, much friendlier than I would have expected. He entered sedately, a four-legged stool under his arm. "Kanden Tadāki desu. Dōzo yoroshiku."

I shrank from his approach. _(Answer. That was a greeting. You need to answer him.)_

Two smaller nazi-ninjas followed, carrying a folded table between them. They all rather blended into the cinderblock walls. Behind them, the door cranked shut with a heavy _thump_ muffled by its rubber liner.

 _Clunk_. An unseen lock engaged.

 _Kidnapped. Trapped with three captors_. The cell had never felt smaller. My face down-turned, I blinked away tears, trying to see through my veil of hair at the first cosplayer. He seemed the one in charge. _You need him to like you._ _Answer him!_

I parted my lips, but couldn't speak. Panic scrambled my thoughts. My throat felt thick from crying; talking seemed impossible. I cuffed my face dry, trying not to draw attention, but fresh drops fell immediately. _I'm not even facing him. Sitting sideways like a moron who doesn't know how chairs work._ Keenly aware of the literal spotlight overhead, I placed a hand on each armrest and attempted to subtly extricate my legs. _Once I'm straightened around. Then I'll talk._

 _You look like a gangly fool._

 _Shut up_.

The two underlings manipulated the table onto its side. Metal joints slammed into place, cracking like thunder within the concrete cell. My body recoiled despite myself. Only my grip prevented me from falling, one leg under the armrest, one leg out. Stress crouched in my muscles, quivering. _I'm usually more coordinated than this._ I stared at my lap as I slowly freed myself. My limbs felt wooden. Liquid blurred my vision. _I'm going to die._

 _Stop it. Focus._

"Wakai josei ni mizu o jisan shite kudasai." The cosplayer-in-command wasn't looking at me; his hand hovered above the shoulder of one of the shorter nazi-ninjas.

"Hai, Kanden-sensei," she replied subordinately, and her _voice_ —

I blinked my eyes clear, sending fresh rivulets down my face.

Light brown skin, black hair in a low bun, and round, squishable cheeks. Large feet in ninja sandals. On the chubby side. An early bloomer, I suspected with horror, who would grow into her weight once the growth spurts hit. _Just a little girl. Right in that awkward junior high stage. How did she get here, aiding kidnappers? Do they even know this is real? What about that boy_ _—?_

But I only saw him wave at the camera before, with a _clunk_ and a rattle, the door opened and both children departed.

 _I'm so out of it I didn't even look at them. That's no way to survive. I think of myself as being observant, too, but I only saw the boss. The most threatening one. How could I claim to know that, when I completely ignored the others?  
_

The door closed and locked. _  
_

Alone with the nazi-ninja. 'Kanden-sensei,' she'd called him. Teacher. _That raises all kinds of flags._ I wanted to curl into a ball and weep into my knees. Instead, I folded my hands and straightened my posture, gazing at his elbow. No helping or hiding the tears. Best I could manage was avoid sniffling.

"Anata wa watashi no manā o yurusu hitsuyō ga arimasu." Incomprehensible words went in one ear and out the other, Kanden's deep tone lilting and amiable. "Anata no tōchaku wa yosōgaideshita—shikashi, wareware wa sore ni tsuite isshun de giron suru koto ga dekimasu," he concluded _whatever_ with a touch of humor, and walked around the table toward me.

I stiffened. Fear widened my eyes. Kanden adjusted his grip on the stool as he opened one of his breast pockets. My soles planted on the cold floor, ready to propel me from the chair. _Where to? Nowhere to run._ _He could pummel me with that stool until one of us caved. Hell, he could strangle me with his bare hands._ _God, please keep me safe, please...  
_

"Koko ni." Kanden proffered an honest-to-goodness _handkerchief._ Like my grandpa used to meet girls. "Nakanaide," he said gently. "Watashi wa anata o tasukeru tame ni koko ni iru."

Surprise stalled me for a second. Then:

 _What does he want? Niceness is a social tool._ _Ingratiation._ _Getting his foot in the door_ _—agreeing to something trivial leads to agreeing to something larger._ _Compliance technique._

I reached for the handkerchief tentatively, observing his expression from under my eyelashes. A pursed smile, but one which crinkled his eyes, hooded with a heavy epicanthic fold. Sympathetically tilted head. Shoulders curled in, as though trying to be non-threatening. Something about this man seemed fatherly.

I didn't trust him a bit.

 _Clunk._ I flinched, looking toward the rising door. My hand jerked away from his 'gift.' Purely by accident, of course.

The girl from earlier reentered with a cup. I tried to meet her eye, but her gaze was distant; professional. _An unlikely ally, regardless. This is a classic Stanford prison experiment scenario. Plus, her boss is right here in the cell_ —

— _touching my hand!  
_

I gasped and quailed at the unexpected hand-holding. Unbothered, Kanden pressed the handkerchief into my palm and closed my fingers over it. Still holding my hand, he gave my knuckles a couple of pats—reminding me again of my grandfather. "Soko ni iku."

 _Clunk._ The door closed behind the girl.

Alone again.

Kanden released me— _thank the Lord_ —and scooped up the stool he'd set down for the purpose of violating my personal space. Placing the stool behind the table, he grasped the cup the girl had left. He looked at me, then raised his sparse eyebrows a fraction. "Tsudzukeru." He gestured to the handkerchief. "Watashi wa wakai josei ga naku no o mitakunai."

 _No reason to upset him._ Shaking from the adrenaline rush, and without taking my eyes off him, I patted my face dry. Something of a relief, really; clinging wetness became irritating before long.

"Ī musume," he almost cooed, obviously pleased.

 _Did he just...praise me?_ My proverbial hackles raised. I blinked at him over the cloth. It needed fairly constant application. _Maybe I misunderstood his tone_ _—no, no, he totally praised me like a dog._

With a deep breath, I blew my nose like a trumpet, loud and rude. The crying and carrying on had created an excess of mucus. I finished with a few short, obnoxious toots.

"Thank you," I whispered, folding the handkerchief into a snot-laden envelope. Embroidered kanji decorated the edges. Pettiness aside, my sinuses felt much clearer.

One long stride brought him close, too close. The spotlight cast his face into shadow and glinted off of the Konoha forehead protector.

I cringed into the chair. _I was bratty about it, but I did what he wanted! I thought_ —

"Anata wa nodo ga kawaite inakereba narimasen." He took the handkerchief, his dry fingers caressing mine, and pushed the cup into my hands. "Ippai yarimasu."

His hand came at my face. I jerked away, terrified. He dabbed beneath my eyes and nose with the handkerchief, smiled paternally, then retreated to his stool.

I gawked at him, still leaning back. _The fuck? What was that? Establishing dominance?_ I peeled my fingers from the armrest and sat up. _Repeatedly making physical contact, a personal connection, then stepping behind the table_ _—or desk. A symbol of authority.  
_

Relieved at the distance but mostly freaked out, I looked at my drink. A paper cup taller than my fist, full of clear water. A tear ran down my nose and dripped in, creating ripples. Immediately, all of the moisture in my throat seemed to evaporate. I swallowed. It hurt. _Probably drugged. I don't wanna get raped. But, heck, he could do that without roofying me. I have no power, no agency.  
_

Inhale.

Exhale.

An hours-long hike in humid, peak-of-summer temperatures; a kidnapping coupled with a mental break; continuous bawling. _They can drug me whenever they want, and I can do sweet nothing about it._ _I'm thirsty._

Cold, filtered water unstuck my throat, soothing irritation. I closed my eyes. It tasted sweet. Not artificially, as if something had been added, but in the way a tall drink gave new life after grueling exercise. I hadn't realized the aftertaste of acidic bile lingered until I washed it away. My headache waned. Congestion thinned. _Wow, I needed that. Dehydration. Who'da thought._

"Ī musume," the nazi-ninja murmured again. "Anata wa ima kibun ga yoku naru hazudesu."

 _The sheer condescension—!_

My nails dented the cup. I wanted to throw it at him. Irrational fury ignited like flames in my lungs. I hated him, I hated being there, I wanted to _hurt_ him, to leap the damn table and gouge his eyes out—

 _He'd swat you aside like a fly._ _Calm yourself._ Utterly expressionless, I stared at the brown-crusted drain. My anger leeched away, leaving me cold and miserable.

Kanden folded his hands on the table. "Ima anata wa rifuresshu sa rete irunode, watashitachi wa ōku giron suru hitsuyō ga arimasu." His tone suggested the beginning of a lecture. "Watashi wa anata ga nani o shitte iru ka kakushin shite imasu." Tilting his head forward, he granted me a knowing expression.

"You know I can't understand you...right?" My voice broke and warbled embarrassingly from crying.

Evidently, he did not. Kanden's soothing cadence flew over my head, his words incomprehensible staccato. I studied his features. Bronze complexion, slightly pocked. Short, black hair above the hitai-ate. Soft cheeks. I honestly couldn't guess his age. Maybe thirties to fifties. He gestured serenely but with purpose, his hands never straying far from his torso. Judging from his tone and gentle chopping motions, Kanden outlined several different points. My speech class instructor would have been impressed. Actually, he reminded me a bit of the therapist I saw during high school, although she wasn't a terrifying fascist cosplayer—

He stopped talking, watching me expectantly.

 _What? What does he want me to say?_

"I'm sorry." _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, just let me go home._ "I still don't understand."

Kanden chuckled his next sentence. He wagged his finger mock-threateningly, but his grin was _wrong,_ his jaw tight, and his crinkled eyes dark like a glare. Terror flashed ice in my blood; I must have blanched. Otherwise, I smothered my reaction: controlled breathing pattern, bland expression, and loosely clasped hands. Frozen. That alone was a tell.

 _That expression...not just dangerous. Contemptuous. If my captor doesn't see me as a person... Lord, help me._

The nazi-ninja resumed the one-sided conversation. Anger defined the set of his shoulders, the sharpness of his smile. I paid rapt, wide-eyed attention. Tears rolled hot down my bloodless face. Strange; I had never cried for so long without actually sobbing.

* * *

Kanden repeated similar phrases every so often. I recognized many of the 'question' words from anime. Nani, naze, dare, douyatte. Periods of seemingly unrelated dialogue interspersed the quiries. Leading statements, I guessed from his tone, though perhaps I projected my expectations of how interrogations worked.

No other explanation made sense. An interrogation. Or Kanden just loved the sound of his own voice.

His pitch changed, indicating a new topic. "Anata wa watashitachi no kōkishin o rikai shinakereba narimasen. Tsūjō, sekyuriti shingai wa teki no shinobu ni yotte kyōi ni narudeshou." That inflection—did he insinuate something? Maybe he just said something mean. "Shikashi, anata wa akiraka ni minkan hitodesu." Condescension edged his tone. "Mottomo kihon-tekina chakura sōsa wa fukanōdesuga, watashitachi no shinrin ni wa bān'auto wa arimasen... Anata no kangae wa dōdesu ka?" Kanden ended curtly, his countenance perfectly civil. _  
_

_Shit. My turn._

Anxiety quickened my breath, as if my body knew I needed a head-start. My captor's tight patience left me unsure of how he would react, like handling an over-inflated balloon. Any moment, it seemed, could be the one he burst. _  
_

I swallowed. "I don't understand your question. I'm sorry."

His gaze weighed on me. Not like a creep about to follow me out to my car, but...something else entirely. "Watashi wa anata no kenshin ni odoroite imasu," he said softly, and I recognized his expression immediately: false respect. Spreading his palms flat on the table, he spoke to me, I imagined, as a seedy businessman to a client. Oily, professional, and out for his own interests. "Zan'nen'nagara, sono kenshin wa machigatte imasu..."

 _This can't go on forever. Sooner or later, I'm going to get a different reaction._ I bit the tip of my tongue, stamping down my roiling emotions. Over a decade of schooling had perfected my attentive face while my thoughts wandered. _He must genuinely believe I speak Japanese. Perhaps he thinks 'I don't understand' is some rote phrase. Name, rank, serial number. Maybe if I delivered a monologue of my own, the larger sample of English would convince him? At the very least he might feel that I'm trying to cooperate._

 _Okay. Next time he asks me something, I'll try.  
_

Perhaps I should have used the intervening time to plan, but I found my mind fuzzy and difficult to focus. I watched and listened, squeezing my knees apprehensively. Occasionally I blotted my cheeks with my sleeve.

Kanden's tone became fervent, though his volume didn't raise. Teeth clenched on hard consonances. Those question-words returned. Standing, he leaned over the table and gripped its sides. His copper-brown knuckles blanched.

Terror halted my breath. _Shit. Am I too late? His posture_ — _is he threatening me?_ I imagined him hauling the table up and bludgeoning me with it.

"Anata jishin o setsumei shite," he whispered, then paused.

 _He's letting me talk! God, give me the right words or tone..._

"Kanden...san," I began haltingly. Anime osmosis had taught me that _not_ using a suffix would be dreadfully offensive. "I, uh, think I need to clarify somehow—"

"Ā, ā." The nazi-ninja raised his hand to interrupt.

My jaw snapped shut.

A wide, toothy smile split his face and scrunched his eyes. Folding his hands behind his back, he staightened, as crisp as his uniform. "Anata wa watashi o 'Kanden-sensei,'" he enunciated clearly, "to yobu kamo shiremasen."

Alarmed and confused due to his abrupt mood-swing (Was the anger fake? Was _this_ fake?), it took me a moment to register his meaning.

 _He wants me to call him...sensei?_ The fine hairs on my neck stood on end. _Oh, no. Oh, f_ _uck. He's upping the power differential!_

"I'm so sorry, I still don't understand," I lied, my face a study of anxious concern. My heart raced. _Everything has been about establishing himself as an authority._ _The kids from earlier: showing me his underlings. The unecessary touches:_ _not flirtatious, but forming a connection and showing who's in charge. Praising me when I complied. Even his stool is taller than this freaky manacle-chair! The hankerchief and water were just..._ Vocabulary from Psychology returned to me. _Ingratiation. Norm of Reciprocity. 'He's nice, isn't he? Don't I like him? Hasn't he done me favors? Don't I owe him?'_ _Foot in the door. Dammit!_

Kanden shook his head slowly, as though regarding a recalcitrant child. "Wareware wa issho ni ikitai. Migi?"

I gave a rueful, sideways frown. _He ought to know by now. No comprende._

"Watashi wa anata o tasukeru koto ga dekimasuga, anata wa watashi ni tekisetsuna keii o shimesu hitsuyō ga arimasu." As he spoke, Kanden stalked around the table, stopping in front of me. "Sarani, watashi no jōshi wa anata ga tadashī keii o shimeshite iru koto o shiru hitsuyō ga arimasu." Resting his weight against the tabletop, he regarded me with _his_ brand of patience. The balloon swelled.

As if of their own accord, my hands found my elbows. I hugged myself. _He's waiting. Maybe I can try the monologue again?_

"Sir." I tried to control my voice. Fear tightened my throat. "I still don't understand a thing you're saying. I don't know how to answer your questions. I'm frankly at a loss of how to communicate that _we can't communicate_ —"

My voice died as Kanden shook his head and pushed off of the table. Bending over me, he planted a hand on either armrest.

 _Shit, shit, red alert, shit!_ I made myself as small as possible, chin tucked and forearms protecting my stomach, and calculated how I might attack the soft flesh.

"Īe, sore wa arimasen." Moist breath warmed my forehead. " _'Sensei'_ ni denwa shite."

 _Ya know what, it's just a word._ I took a breath to obey, but...

 _What will he want next?_

 _There was a Bible story_ — _someone was imprisoned_ — _maybe Paul, he was imprisoned a lot_ — _whatever_ _. They taught prisoners new beliefs. Very behavioral psychology. They conform, get better accommodations; soon, they're good little citizens. Except the guy in the story recognized the foot in the door, and didn't let it in. He refused to eat the better food. He, alone, remained faithful.  
_

My heart plunged at my stupid, stupid decision, already made.

"I don't know what you want," I whispered, gazing without seeing at one of his breast pockets, but my tone— _oh,_ my tone gave my lie away.

"Wakarimasu," said Kanden evenly, not sounding angry at all.

A large hand grabbed my forearm and planted it on the armrest. Metal enclosed my wrist as he clapped the manacle shut.

 _"Hey!"_ I screamed, shrill and echoing off of the cell walls. He locked the manacle with a key I hadn't even _seen._

"Please don't do this, please, please don't—" I shoved my free arm behind my back, my other one writhing within the restraint. It held firm. I pushed my feet against his legs. Not kicking, just trying to buy time, my wrist was already trapped, I couldn't escape anyway or win a fight without my stun gun—

Kanden's disappointed smile remained as fixed as a mask. Grabbing my shoulder, he dragged my arm out from behind me, then lined it up with the open shackle.

When he reached to clamp it shut, I lunged, shoving myself in the way. "— _please,_ you don't have to—"

His arm swung a backhand—

Pain flashed white. My head snapped to the side. Fire engulfed the side of my face, burning deep into my cheekbone. Gaping and incapable of thought, I hung my head, my hair draping forward to hide me. My brain felt rattled. Saliva dripped from my lip before I could gulp it back. I tasted iron.

Hitching his pant-legs up a little, Kanden crouched to fetter my legs. I didn't fight as metal confined my ankles.

A heaving sob tore up from my stomach. Just one. My nails bit my palms. I clenched my jaw, flaring pain where I'd been struck, and concentrated on not bawling, not making any noise at all. Rage rolled slow and powerful through my veins. I wanted to thrash and roar and foam at the mouth. Hidden by my hair, my expression twisted. Breaths became long and deliberate. _Pull it back. Pull it back. No more weakness. Not in front of him._

The hinge crowning the chair-back unlocked.

Ignoring the pain it caused, I tossed my head, flipping my hair away from my face and down my back. Out of the way for the last restraint. Fury seeped molten into my bones, a source of strength—and distance. My face hardened to stone, unemotional (except for my rebellious eyes, which continued to leak). Chin raised, I sat with utmost poise. I wished I could cross my legs.

An overlarge helmet lowered onto my head. Thin squeaks of something small and metallic turning coincided with the sides compressing my temples and ears. I imagined being squished as if by a garbage compacter, but they stopped before the pressure became uncomfortable. Petals tightened against my forehead and the base of my skull, next. Claustrophobia lingered in the back of my throat.

Kanden entered my line of sight, wearing the look of a sad but stern parent. _This hurts me more than it hurts you,_ said his mouth and eyebrows. _I'm enjoying myself,_ said his eyes. Leaning in close, he reached for something on the side of the helmet.

I considered very seriously whether to spit a gob of bloody saliva in his face.

"Sore wa kanashīdesuga, fu jūjun'na shōjo-tachi wa kunren o ukenakereba narimasen." Pulling a belt beneath my jaw like the strap of a bicycle helmet, Kanden aligned an attached leather cup beneath my chin, then secured the belt to the other side of the helmet with a metallic clap. "Watashi wa kono-jikan o anata no fusei o han'ei suru tame ni toru koto o negatte imasu."

My gaze drilled into him. I tried to open my jaw experimentally, only managing about a centimeter. _Missed my chance to spit._

Bracing his hands on his knees, Kanden searched my expression. He must have seen me willing his spontaneous combustion, but he merely sighed and stroked the sensitive skin beneath my eyes, wiping away tears.

Blood thundered in my ears. I refused to flinch, or even blink at his mitts fondling my face. _You do not have permission to touch me! _My jaw clenching, I microadjusted my features for a truly impressive glare, hoping my hatred shone through my eyes. _Die. Just fucking drop dead._

"Mata ashita ne." His lips twitched, as if at a joke. "Yoku nemuru."

Levering upright, Kanden graced me with a curteous nod, then strode around the table to retrieve his stool. A brisk wave to the camera signaled the door to rise into the ceiling. The madman exited without looking back, his head held high.

Quick breaths resounded in my skull. A result of the helmet covering my ears. I scraped my fingernails on the metal armrests. A scream climbed my throat, trapped behind my forcibly closed teeth. _Keep it in. No more weakness._

The door fell shut with a soft boom.

 _Clunk._

* * *

 **End chapter five.**

Ah, unrelenting weeping. Everything we love in our Strong Female Protagonists.

I did a lot of interesting research for this, including interrogative processes and "soft" torture techniques. (I must be on at least a couple watchlists now.) Remember, ninjas _prize_ mind games. They're how they stay alive. Heck, when they introduced Ibiki, they emphasized his mastery of _psychological_ torture. Obviously the ninja world relies on physical torture as well, but it is widely accepted that a subject will say _anything,_ regardless of truth, just to make the pain stop.

Anyway, T&I would definitely do much more (and worse) than pry off fingernails. They would also gauge a subject's mental state first. There is a balance between encouraging/brainwashing one into talking, and causing psychological deterioration. Besides the risk of becoming incomprehensible, false memories are prone to crop up under stress, especially when one is expected to know something.

When observing Amy, they found an utterly terrified, mentally fragile young lady, and crafted a regimen suited just for her. :)

Of course, she would have told them everything she knew if she _spoke their language._ But they're working under the assumption that new, whole languages _don't_ spring out of thin air, especially from powerful chakra burnouts so near the village, and that she's faking.

"Kanden Tekuno" is a nifty side-character jounin whose family name I'm borrowing for "Kanden Tadāki," Amy's interrogator. According to Narutopedia, "Kanden" means "receiving an electric shock," which they used for Tekuno's traps-and-bombs theme, but for my purposes, it's perfectly ominous for someone in T&I.

On that note, "Itsuki" from chapter three means "trees for timber," which just seemed very Konoha to me. It's probably a popular name.

...I put too much effort into little things.

Lastly: thank you, thank you, _thank you_ to everyone who reviewed! I know, everyone does this in their authors notes (with a side of holding their updates hostage if they don't recieve the appropriate amount), but every time I clicked to see my twenty-some reviews I was just filled with joy. I didn't reply to any this last chapter, 'cause...I was feeling anti-social, which I realize isn't much of an excuse...but! I am telling you now, I appreciate the time you took to give me your feedback, and each of you made me very happy. ^.^


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